Fear on Four Paws

by Clea Simon

  “Are you saying I should have interrogated the sucker fish about something?” I had her full attention, seeing as how I was pulling poultry flesh from bone. “Or Sage?”

  “That rat dog?” Wallis grows impatient quickly. “Pampered little runt.”

  “Now, now.” I placed the dish on the floor, and Wallis dived in. Often, she’ll join me at the table, but old habits die hard. “She had some kind of misadventure, and an animal her size doesn’t have many defenses.”

  “Huh.” The dismissive grunt was muted by the sound of her lapping at the salty flesh. “Pampered runt…”

  I was curious as to what had happened with the Chihuahua, but Wallis’ reaction confirmed my suspicions. Wallis isn’t psychic—not as a human would term it, anyway—but she can read the clues that other animals leave on me better than I can. If she didn’t think that the little dog had been seriously endangered, then it was likely my initial take was correct. The dog had been “lost” somewhere safe, rather than outside in the wild as Ernest Luge had originally thought. Granted, Wallis wouldn’t have lost any sleep if the little dog had been taken by a predator, but I didn’t think she’d entirely dismiss my concerns—or what I did to keep us in roast chicken—if the dog’s life had been threatened.

  “And then there’s your boyfriend…” The thought poked into my mind like a chicken bone as I finished my beer.

  “I’m supposed to interrogate a cop?” I turned toward the tabby by my feet. “You know how Creighton gets when he’s in that mood.”

  A low growl, though whether that was directed toward me, Creighton, or a gristly piece that was giving her trouble, I couldn’t tell. Nor was I completely surprised when my phone pinged. Wallis isn’t psychic, but she is a cat, and cats do pick up on things. Two texts appeared. The first was from Greg, telling me that the bear was in good shape and would be “re-homed”—what a word—soon. The second was from Creighton. I glanced over at the cat, who only flicked her black-tipped tail, before reading.

  Pru—Can you see to the AOC tomorrow?

  Creighton was texting about the animal control office. I replied:

  Albert on a bender?

  I imagined him driving the big man home, and realized I had no idea if Albert had retrieved his truck. Creighton might have had a say in that, of course. As I waited for a response, Wallis finished her dinner and licked the plate. She was busy washing her snowy white forepaws when I texted Jim again, a little peeved that he’d left me hanging.

  What’s going on?

  Nothing. I knew that if Creighton texted me, it meant he didn’t want to or couldn’t talk. That didn’t mean I had to play by his rules, so I called him.

  “Hey, Jim.” I ignored the disgruntled “yes?” with which he’d picked up the phone. “What’s going on?”

  “I need you to cover animal control.” His voice was flat. “You can bill the city.”

  “I know I can bill the city.” He wasn’t getting away with this. “But why? Is Albert dug in over at Happy’s?”

  It wasn’t simple curiosity. If Albert was seriously out of commission, I’d also be taking care of Frank, and I wanted some idea of how long I’d be on the hook. If Albert had been so shaken up that he’d gone on a bender, I would only need to look out for his mustelid companion until he sobered up. If something else was in the works, well, I had too much respect and affection for Frank to leave him abandoned in the office.

  “Don’t push, Pru.” The warning note in Creighton’s voice made the hair on the back of my neck rise.

  “Jim, I have a right to know.” I didn’t. Not really. But this was as much a battle for dominance as any out in those woods. “You’re already involving me.”

  A sigh of capitulation. “Albert’s staying with us for a while,” Creighton said at last.

  “Albert still isn’t telling you what happened with the bear?” I caught myself. Creighton wouldn’t hold a man for illegal hunting, not someone like Albert, who wasn’t a flight risk. “It’s about the body.”

  Another sigh. “Pru…”

  “Jim, you know Albert. He’s not the sharpest tack, but he’s not mean. If someone died—if there was an accident or even a fight…” A stray thought popped into my head. I looked over but Wallis had gone. “Did you talk to Paul Lanouette? He’s a mean drunk when he drinks. You know that—you’ve picked him up a score of times. If the staties want to question someone, they should put the screws to Paul. He’s the kind to hit someone.”

  “He might’ve,” said my sometime beau. “That might be what happened, but I won’t know until Albert starts talking. Paul’s dead, Pru, and Albert’s the last person to have seen him.”

  My boy scout of a beau rang off after that little bombshell, and even though I shared Wallis’ intense curiosity—her lashing tail a giveaway despite her feigned indifference—I let him. I’d get more out of him in person, I figured.

  Paul Lanouette. So that’s whose body had been found in the shed. The reason for Creighton’s mood. Yeah, it was horrible, and I felt a twinge of something I guess you’d call shock at the news. That didn’t mean I’d mourn the man. Not much. What it did spark was my curiosity. Considering Lanouette’s proclivities, his end could have come in a number of ways. I didn’t think he had the looks to be a ladies’ man, the kind to be killed by a jealous lover or her husband. Not anymore, with his beach boy hair thinning and the lines around that rakish grin grown deeper than any dimple. But I also wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that he was hitting on someone he shouldn’t have—or even dumped the wrong woman. And while I doubted it was the drink that had done him in, or my guy wouldn’t have been involved, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that drunken misbehavior had played a part. No, the man I’d known in high school had made bad choices, and, beyond a momentary pang, I couldn’t grieve his loss. His death was a waste, nothing more.

  Besides, I’d soon learn more. It had been three nights now since Creighton had come by, and that was as long as we’d ever left it. Work was work, but appetites need to be sated, and Wallis’ deep, guttural purr let me know she agreed.

  Despite the dour news, the tabby and I spent a companionable evening. While I waited, I passed the time paying the bills that never seemed to stop coming and she alternated bathing and staring into an inner space beyond my comprehension. I started drinking around dusk. The bourbon helped—me, not her—but by ten, I began to question whether my beau was ever going to arrive. The bills weren’t done, far from it, but I’d reached the point where I didn’t trust myself to not simply write obscenities on the checks.

  Still, I dawdled. Since Creighton and I had become a regular thing, I’d gotten used to him coming by every night or two, and I had simply assumed he’d want to make up for lost time after the last few nights. As the clock kept ticking, the famous aphorism about assumptions —what they make of “u” and “me”—kept surfacing, despite the bourbon haze.

  Wallis didn’t have to read my mind to know my thoughts. I could see her green eyes following me as I’d turn my head toward the window, expecting a pair of familiar headlights. She might have been waiting for him too. For once, she held her snark in check, pressing against my legs without comment as I stared into the dark. When he hadn’t shown by eleven, I’d had enough. It wasn’t another woman. I know men—or, at least this man—well enough for that. But I’m not the sit-at-home-waiting type, no matter what the reason.

  “I’m going out,” I said, unnecessarily, to the cat at my feet. “Maybe I can pick up on something that Creighton wouldn’t.”

  She didn’t even bother to respond to that particular lie.

  Chapter Ten

  Happy’s wasn’t full. Little in Beauville was, these days, unless the newcomers took to it. But a small crowd had gathered, drawn by the need for community if not for the liquid solace the bartender poured with a reasonably generous hand.

  “Bourbon.” I didn’t need
to say it. Happy, the bartender, had the heavy bottomed glass out already. He knew enough to pour the Maker’s Mark, rather than whatever brown rotgut Ronnie was drinking. The poor man was nearly facedown on the bar, but I didn’t think I could either console or interrogate him. Not yet. The first shot went down easily, and before the warmth had even begun to spread, the barkeep had refilled my glass.

  “Thanks, Hap.” It was habit. The original Happy—if there had ever been one—had passed long ago. The current owner, who also served the drinks, had inherited the name. As dour as a basset hound, he’d accepted it without comment. Then again, he rarely commented on anything. That was one reason people kept coming here.

  Well, that and the lack of options. I checked out the room, nursing my drink. Beauville had changed since I first snuck in here, underage and eager for trouble. That Happy hadn’t been much friendlier, but he’d turned a blind eye—and poured the well liquor—for me and my running buddies. In those days, this had been a workingman’s bar. Anyone with the money, as well as couples, went over to Pittsfield to that place that served steak and had dancing. Some women probably went there as well, not that I would know. My mother had only ever graced Happy’s to pull my father out. I didn’t know if she ever sussed out that I had followed his lead here, or if, by that time, she had simply given up.

  These days, the definition of a workingman was pretty loose. Money had come back to town in recent years, with the newcomers. But it flowed to those places that catered to them, rather than old-school watering holes like this one. Not that I could really complain. I’d grown fond of Hardware, our one good restaurant, opened by urban homesteaders who’d taken over the long-vacant store of the same name. And if today was any example, I was set to make some money from the latest arrivals.

  Looking around, though, I was reminded that the rising tide was drowning some of my colleagues. Ronnie, for example, had a gig at the local condo development. I knew he was holding onto that by his fingernails, however, which might have explained why he hung out there in the woods, where I’d found Albert and the bear. And most of this crew hadn’t done half as well.

  One of Creighton’s deputies—Chuck—was seated at the far end of the bar. He’d glanced up as I entered, and we’d nodded at each other. That’s the way Beauville was—all of us cheek by jowl. Chuck had been a year or two behind me at school, and he’d had a reputation as a hell-raiser, too. A tough guy, quick with his fists, it was probably only luck of the draw that had landed him on Creighton’s team, as opposed to Paul’s—or mine.

  Larry Greeley’s alliances weren’t as clear. He nodded to Chuck as he came in, too, and then took a seat next to Ronnie. From the way Chuck watched them, I thought he wanted to join them. They’d all known Paul, better than I ever had, and I could only guess what they’d all been up to during my years away. Ronnie slumped lower in his seat, once Larry was settled in, and Larry threw a collegial arm over his shoulder. It made me like the guy better, and gave me some sympathy for Chuck. The deputy had only recently joined Creighton’s team—a part of the expansion to help the department service the new population—and he hadn’t figured out that he no longer quite fit with the old crew, I guessed. One more reason for me to keep my allegiance to myself.

  But that wouldn’t get me any information. And so as I finished my drink, I slid over to a closer stool. “Happy?” I nodded to their glasses, and he filled them. Mine as well, which helped when the door opened again and my ex, Mack, walked in, making a beeline toward me.

  “Pru.” He nodded and held out his hand.

  So it was to be handshakes, then. “Mack.” His palm was callused and cool. He’d been working.

  “I heard about Paul.” He looked over at the other men. “I figured I should pay my respects.”

  “Albert tell you what happened?” I sipped my whiskey, hoping to cover my curiosity.

  Mack’s eyes strayed to the glass but snapped away. “Ronnie,” he said. “I gather Albert’s in for a while. He—they—have kept him locked up.”

  He licked his lips. That could have been because of my glass of whiskey. Mack was on the wagon. Then again, it could have been because he’d almost named Jim Creighton, who had replaced him in my affections.

  “I’m kind of surprised Creighton is holding him.” There, I’d said his name. The bourbon helped. What didn’t help was how good Mack looked. Sobriety agreed with him, as did physical labor. He’d filled out a bit, with muscle this time, and his eyes were clear and dark.

  “Me too!” Ronnie chimed in. “You’re still buying?”

  “One more.” I nodded again toward Happy and raised my own glass. “So what happened?”

  “I hear Albert wouldn’t talk.” His buddy stared down the bar, licking his lips before proceeding. “He said if they weren’t going to—you know—charge him with something he didn’t have to say anything.”

  “That wasn’t—” I closed my eyes and tried again. “I told him to talk to a lawyer.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess it’s the same thing.” He downed his drink, the whiskey kicking in as certainty. “He knows what he’s doing.”

  I had nothing.

  “Anyway, I guess someone else wants to speak to him.”

  The staties. My head was becoming heavy. Mack reached over and touched my arm.

  “You okay, Pru?” His voice was warm.

  “Yeah, why?” Mine wasn’t. This was old territory.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “You seem, on edge, maybe.”

  “A man died.” I was stating a fact. “And Albert is treating it like reality television.” Truth was, I might have cared more about the bear, but at least the bear had survived. “Why are you really here?”

  He laughed and stepped away. “I don’t know,” he said again. “I guess I should take off. Work in the morning.”

  “That’s good.” I put some lift in my voice. Suddenly, I found I wanted him to stay. “Contracting?” Those calluses.

  He shook his head, but he was smiling. “Construction. I’m on a crew over in North Adams. That whole town is coming back.” He looked toward the door. “I might take a place over there.”

  “Well, good luck to you.” I swallowed hard and reached for his hand. But he only raised it to wave as he backed away and then turned toward the door.

  “He’s a smart guy.” I’d almost forgotten Ronnie next to me. “Getting out of here, while the getting’s good.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” I growled.

  “I know. Jim said if I didn’t show up in the morning then he would arrest me. So, Pru?” He blinked at me with sad puppy eyes and raised his glass.

  “Sure.” I needed the company. “Happy? One more round, on me.”

  Chapter Eleven

  It was barely dawn when I woke with a start, jostling Wallis, who’d been sleeping beside me.

  “Good morning.” She snorted in derision as she readjusted, kneading the pillow beside mine in a rhythm that made my head pound. “For some of us, at any rate.”

  “If you had unlimited catnip…” I couldn’t go on. I rolled on my back and waited for the room to stop spinning. “I was upset.” It was the best I could come up with.

  “You were unsettled.” The accent she put on the last word made her meaning quite clear. Knowing she could read my thoughts as easily as I could the morning paper, I didn’t hold back. Yes, seeing Mack had disturbed me, maybe more so because I wasn’t sure what was going on with Creighton. Maybe it was just as well that he’d left when he did. I hadn’t stayed that much longer, although the way I’d stumbled over a bar stool on my way out—only luck had kept me from wiping out entirely—meant that I’d already been in bad shape.

  “I gather you missed a step.” Cats can be such prisses at times. There she sat, washing one white paw as if she’d never gotten it muddy.

  “Muddy?” That mind-reading thing wa
s really annoying. “Well, then, maybe you should pay better attention. I gather it was a—hmmm—mixed crew?”

  I pulled myself into a seated position. She was getting at something, but I needed a shower and coffee before I could decipher her hints.

  “Hints?” Another swipe at that paw and she settled down to nap. “Like I’m the one who’s missing the obvious.”

  Mack. “I thought you liked Creighton.” Wallis may be spayed, but I’d swear that at times she flirted with the handsome cop.

  “You are slow today. Last night, too...” Her internal voice started to fade as she drifted back to sleep. “I didn’t mean him. Not at all…”

  I wasn’t going to waste my time trying to second-guess a cat, not with a head like mine. I blamed the hangover when I couldn’t find my knife. My favorite blade is sharp, but small enough that in my current condition, it could be right in front of me. I had a vague memory of mumblety-peg at the bar, before Happy threatened to cut me off, but I was sure I’d sheathed it in my boot, as was my wont, before stumbling out the door. I didn’t like taking off without it, but I had little choice. Making a mental note to turn the house over later, I gave the GTO a cursory once-over before heading into town.

  For once, getting behind the wheel wasn’t the answer to my malaise. Even as I drove, I found myself chewing over my tabby’s parting crack. Wallis hates to be disturbed, so she could have been talking about my drinking, although if she really found my movements that disruptive she had plenty of other places to sleep. But it was possible she meant something else, like that I should have tried to learn more about Albert, who was on my mind even more than my missing beau. I didn’t see his truck, as I rolled up to the office over which he was at least nominally in charge. I did spy Creighton’s souped-up sedan, the one whose headlights I’d been searching for, before I’d gone out last night.